


Lady of Sorrows

by Stxtic



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Transphobia, Trans Male Character, Trans Number Five | The Boy, deadnames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24660010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stxtic/pseuds/Stxtic
Summary: The name Dolores means sorrow. Five has more than enough sorrow already.
Relationships: Dolores & Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy), Dolores/Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 106





	Lady of Sorrows

The name Dolores meant sorrow. Five knew that, he was well versed enough in Latin that he didn’t really need to research it, but he had, just out of morbid curiosity.

As he lay on the cracked tile floor of the ruined department store, with his hands and feet and chest aching and the weight of his solitude seeming heavier with each passing second, the name had never been more fitting. Not that it ever really fit.

Because sorrow, pain and grief and sorrow, that was what Five’s life had become. That was all he felt. He thought it had been difficult before, living in that house. And it had been. But honestly, that had been nothing compared to this.

He scanned his surroundings once more, needlessly. He had seen nothing resembling another human being in weeks, but he still felt the need to check. His eyes met only rubble and glowing embers, and the sorrow in his chest grew darker.

Maybe Grace had known this was where he would end up. Maybe something in that tangle of circuitry tucked behind her motherly face had computed his fate all those months ago, when she lined the seven of them up in the parlor and gave them each their brand new name. Gave Five yet another curse he had to pretend to be grateful for.

But no, she couldn’t have known. Because if she had known about the reasons Five’s new name might be fitting, she must have known about the reasons it wasn’t. And nobody could know that, Five had always made sure of it. He knew what happened to people like him. He knew what his parents would have thought, or at least he knew what Reginald would have thought. Maybe his mother would have been different? She was Reginald’s creation, but she had always been so kind to Five, so much warmer than anything else in the house, so loving--

And Five had to hurriedly stop that train of thoughts in its tracks, because he was hit with a barrage of memories of Grace, and once again the solitude- the _sorrow_ \- was too much to bear. His eyes stung.

He pulled himself up to sitting fast enough that his head throbbed, sniffling and wiping his face on his tattered sleeve. He didn’t want to cry. He was already dehydrated, and besides, he didn’t want to give in to the sorrow. But the loneliness burned like ice against his skin, and the memories of his mother’s touch were still strong in his mind. He could almost feel her hand on his cheek, smooth and inhumanly cool, soothing the tear tracks that cut across his face. He scanned his surrounding a bit more frantically, willing his breathing to steady.

And then he saw it. And for the first time since he went under the ice a little scrap of hope billowed in his chest.

He knew, in a hollow, distant way, that this would be fruitless as he hurried toward it, scrabbling over the rubble in a wobbly crawl, swallowing back the tears. He let himself hope anyways, just because hope wasn’t sorrow. _'It isn’t real, Five,'_ a voice intoned from the back of his mind, though it didn’t slow him down. _'It isn’t her.'_

He finally pulled himself to the top of the little rubble heap, slumping down onto his stomach in front of it. He stared at the thing that had given him that tiny sliver of hope.

A slender white hand reached up from the ruin.

Its fingers were gently crooked in such a lifelike gesture, as if it was grasping for something skyward. From a distance it had looked completely human. Now, up close, Five could see the smoothness of its plastic material, the unnatural color. He could see the stiff, ball jointed arm leading down to the body it belonged to, still partially covered in detritus.

He moved the blackened chunks of drywall away, uncovered the mannequin's face, and jolted suddenly. She wasn't human, he knew that, her face was paint on plastic. But the feeling of seeing a face other than his own, even a false one, was a shock to his system after weeks of solitude. He stared at her for another moment and let her presence wash away a little bit of the sorrow.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he said. It came out softer and more sincere than he meant it, his rusty voice not delivering its usual levels of snark.

He pulled her upright and adjusted the fabric of the blouse on her shoulder. When he did he left behind a rusty, reddish brown fingerprint, and it kind of made the whole thing look worse. He winced and fluttered his hands over the blouse for a moment before giving up. It was tattered anyways, and a little burnt. Maybe he’d try and find something better as he picked through the rubble for supplies. Maybe she’d like that.

“What’s your name?” he murmured. She didn't respond. _'Because she's an inanimate object, Five,'_ the tired voice in his head said. He pushed it away. He was breathing steady now, and his chest felt full for once. And anyways, he thought better when he had someone to talk to.

“You don’t have one, huh? I don’t either.” He looked at the mannequin’s calm, painted, perfect face, considering.

“Well,” he said. “You can have mine. Not like I’m using it.”

He straightened her out once more, tried to get her a little more comfortable, relishing the feeling of a hand in his as he used her arm to steady the both of them.

“It’s just you and me now, Dolores,” he said, and the name burned his mouth and sent waves of icy unease down into his chest. He ignored the feeling; it wasn’t his name to hate anymore. It was hers now. No one would ever call him that name again. No one would ever call him anything ever again.


End file.
